The Fifth Stage
by Sagaria
Summary: Five short scenes from the life at Baker Steet 221B and about how John Watson copes with the changing relationship between him and his roommate. Fluffy Johnlock. One-shot.


(Author's notes)

This is story is being published thanks to my beta - gbheart. Once again - I'm very thankful for your help!

The story is a translation of one of my fanfics related to Sherlock. Mind you, English is not my native language, but I did my best to make the language as correct as possible.

Kubler-Ross model ( wiki/K%C3%BCbler-Ross_model ) is usually used when talking about grieving. There's no grieving in here. Just the titles and some basic idea is taken from the model.

**The Fifth Stage**

**Stage I – Denial**

It was the forth crime scene in which they appeared together. The fact that this freak brought someone with him, and apparently this someone appeared to have a friendly attitude towards him, was incomprehensible for the most of the Scotland Yard team. But later on, the same man accompanied him on yet another crime scene, and again he was assisting him and seemed to admire the consulting detective's arrogant display of erudition. It was only a matter of time before a certain question was raised.

"Are you two dating?" Sally asked John, in order to satisfy the curiosity.

"No." John seemed to be offended by the question.

"But you live together..." She kept on tormenting him, unconvinced by his answer.

"We do so because it's cheaper this way. And that's all. For god's sake, whose idea was it? Me and Sherlock?" he exclaimed, annoyed.

"John, we're leaving," Sherlock informed him, and went under the yellow crime scene tape, seemingly not caring that John was in the middle of a conversation.

"The answer is _no_," John repeated once again, to make himself clear, and quickly followed Sherlock.

* * *

**Stage II – Anger**

"Maybe if you stopped denying our relationship so fiercely, people would become tired of teasing you, " Sherlock advised him. That was his attitude; he didn't even slightly care about what people were calling him. A psycho, a freak, a junkie – it didn't mean anything to him. But for John, it was important to him how the public saw him. And apparently being considered to be in a romantic relationship with a male, eccentric, officially unemployed, world's only consulting detective was not much of a thing to be proud of.

The next time John tried to convince someone – this time his sister – that there was absolutely nothing, apart from purely platonic feelings and willingness to pay half the rent, between the two of them, Sherlock informed him:

"You're just lying – not good enough."

And that was just too much. John could not take it from Sherlock. Angry, he got up and went upstairs, throwing one of the conical flasks down on the floor on his way through the kitchen.

John was never angry at anyone for too long. Especially not with Sherlock, whom it was easy to be angry with, but as it happened rather often, John was always quickly forgiving him and forgetting about the matter.

The situation was much worse when it was himself that he was angry at.

* * *

**Stage III – Bargaining**

John was sitting behind the kitchen table eating some microwaved Chinese noodle takeaway from a bowl, hardly fitting between all the beakers, conical flasks, stands with half-filled test-tubes and a leaking burette which was dripping something that was corroding through the base of the burette's stand.

" I could heat up some for you as well," he informed Sherlock, who jumped up as though he was surprised to find that John was in the room at all.

"Nah," he replied, and put the down the test-tube he was currently shaking.

"Yeah, right. Digestion slows you down," John remarked under his breath.

Sherlock took off the latex gloves and headed over towards John, stopping just behind him. John stiffened and his hand stopped in the middle of the distance between the bowl and his mouth, when he felt his best friend's skilful hand on his neck. Sherlock leaned above his roommate.

"Your body's betraying you", he murmured, only an inch away from the doctor's ear.

"God, please, anything but not this," John moaned, for he knew what was awaiting for him from Sherlock – a ruthless, exposing analysis.

"Pupils dilated, pulse increased..." Sherlock's hand moved onto John's torso, embracing the army doctor from the behind.

"Please, stop."

It was not rare for John to ask Sherlock to do something, but usually he did not obey. But this time, he did. Sherlock turned back to his test-tubes and occupied himself with collecting the formed precipitate, ignoring the trembling John, believing that he will draw conclusions on his own.

* * *

**Stage IV – Depression**

John did not come downstairs in the morning. Neither did he when it was the time for normal people to have lunch. But Sherlock did not worry. He knew that, sooner or later, he would overcome it. In the afternoon, he went upstairs, bringing John a sandwich.

As he entered the bedroom, John, who apparently didn't have even a slightest intent to get up, turned away so that he was facing the wall. Sherlock placed the plate on the bedside table.

"Since when do you remember about others' needs?" John asked him quietly.

"You're my blogger and live-in PA. It is my duty to keep you alive."

"Interesting. It's usually the other way round," his only friend murmured.

"About yesterday... I don't mind." He leaned above John and ran his hand through his sand-coloured hair. John curled up even more, trying to avoid his touch like a stray cat that does not wish to be petted.

"You were supposed to be married to your work."

"You are a part of my work," Sherlock said with difficulty. It was nearest to a love confession it could ever be, considering how bad he was at handling such things.

Sherlock left John alone for some more time. "It always was only a matter of time," he thought.

* * *

**Stage V – Acceptance**

There is no time for worrying, for the dwellers of Baker Street 221B. Every day brought a new case – in the multimillion metropolis, hardly a day goes by without murder, forgery or conspiracy.

As they were sitting on the floor of an ambulance, their shoulders covered with an orange blanket, exhausted after another chase after a criminal mastermind, John was happy to be there at a crime scene with Sherlock, instead of being home, living the dull life of a normal person.

The Scotland Yard team was bustling around and securing the evidence.

Their hands met under the orange blanket in a calming gesture.

"Glad you're safe and sound," John remarked.

"Glad you are too," Sherlock replied. They both wanted to say so much more, but it wasn't necessary, as their gestures conveyed their feelings far better than any words that could be said. John laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder, who smiled with triumph and gently touched his friend's hair with his lips. John didn't care anymore if they were being watched, or if the next thing they were to hear was Anderson's teasing. The only thing that mattered was that they were safe. Together.


End file.
